


to work the dust

by anamnesisUnending



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Gen, I just think it'd be neat if Peter did some introspection and if he and Jet almost got along, Insomnia Bonding, Spoilers for episode 3.05: Juno Steel and the Tools of Rust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:06:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22167583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamnesisUnending/pseuds/anamnesisUnending
Summary: a sleepless night, a nameless thief, and two mugs of tea
Relationships: Peter Nureyev & Jet Sikuliaq
Comments: 13
Kudos: 124





	to work the dust

**Author's Note:**

> soooooo, that new episode, huh?
> 
> anyway, this is a public service announcement to stan M'tendere's voice actor Anjimile because _that music,_ am I right?

_Breathe. Slowly._

Jet tries to let his memories come and go without interference, without his fighting them, without shoving them away behind the bars of a cage. He notes his feelings, anger, and shame, and tries to remember that they are temporary. As all things are. Though they may rise and fall through the hours and weeks, even through the years, as cyclical as the tides of any ocean, they will fade again, and he tries to remember that.

He breathes. Slowly. His lungs seek to rebel against him, but he is in control. As he always _should_ be, and always _will_ be.

His eyes have fallen shut, though he is no closer to sleep here in this hallway than he was in his bed. They startle open at a sound, the shuffling of slippered footsteps coming closer. The thief.

Jet had wished to spend this evening undisturbed, but they lock eyes as the thief approaches.

The thief tilts his head curiously. He visibly gathers himself, his perpetual air of false confidence, false calm. Even when he does not lie, he bleeds dishonesty.

“I didn’t expect to see anyone else awake,” he says.

“Nor did I,” Jet says. “I do not want anyone’s company at this time.”

“Of course,” the thief says. “I was only getting up to make myself some tea. Would you like any?”

Jet pauses. To answer no would grant him his solitude once more. But his hands ache for something he will not give into again, and he can’t deny that a cup of tea may help to soothe that ache, so he stands. “Very well,” he says.

The thief’s eyes flicker with surprise, but he quickly suppresses it and starts after Jet, following just too close behind.

“I don’t mind making it for you,” he says. His tone shifts to one of false levity. “I know Vespa would have you believe I could burn water, but I assure you I’m not _quite_ so inept in the kitchen.”

Jet takes down the tea kettle without so much as a nod to acknowledge the thief’s words. He says, “Making tea is a delicate art. At the wrong temperature it is easy to scald the leaves. I will make my own.”

He sets the water to boil and finds his box of decaffeinated Jovian. He notes with disappointment that there are only a few bags left, certainly not enough to last the week until their next supply stop. The thief reaches past him for a box of chamomile, then goes to perch on the table at a respectful distance.

“Jet, about the job today,” he begins.

“I do not wish to discuss this,” Jet says firmly.

The thief nods. “Of course. Only… I want to apologize.”

“You completed your part of the job adequately, even admirably, in spite of the frequent difficulties posed by your partners. Any complications that arose were not your fault. I do not see what you have to apologize for.”

The thief seems taken aback. “Thank you,” he says, still with a glimmer of surprise. “I--”

“I told you I do not wish to discuss today’s job.”

“I know. I just--”

“So I would prefer that you don’t continue speaking about it.”

“I should have realized that your past was something you’d rather not dwell on,” the thief says quickly. “And I’m sorry for not realizing that my admiration of the person you were in that past would be… unwelcome.” 

“It is un _deserved_ ,” Jet says forcefully. There is fury in him, and it is for the man he used to be, not the thief sitting before him, but the fury lives in his body, in his hands and his voice, and it will not go only where it is told. It is an explosion in potentia, directionless violence.

The thief is quiet and unflinching.

The tea kettle whispers, a faint hiss of steam escaping. Jet takes it off the heat before the water fully begins to boil. In the cupboard he finds a mug for the thief, and one that Buddy gave him some time ago, delicate ceramic with a vine-like pattern engraved around it. He pours the water and sets the tea to steep.

The thief begins to speak again--tentatively, but Jet finds he likes his silence no better than his voice, so he does not interrupt.

“There’s a reason I choose not to share my name with anyone. Things in my past I would rather remain forgotten. I think… you’re a braver man than I for walking away from your past without burying it. And I hope you’ll forgive me if I tell you that’s admirable.”

Jet only grunts a response, finding himself uncertain of what to say. He hands the thief his mug of tea, and watches him take a careful sip as he stirs two spoonfuls of sugar into his own.

The thief furrows his brow as his glasses fog up with the steam from his mug. He takes them off to look again at Jet.

“I can’t tell you who I am yet,” he says. “Perhaps it’s vain of me, but… I’d like to think I’m keeping this secret for more than just myself.”

He slips down from the table as though to leave, but lingers a moment longer. “Thank you,” he says. “For the tea, and for listening. I suppose… I’ll leave you to your thoughts. Good night, Jet.”

Jet nods and leans back against the counter, holding the warmth of his own mug of tea in both hands and watching him slip away into the dark.

Before he vanishes entirely into the shadow of the hallway, Jet calls after him, testing the false name on his tongue, “Ransom?”

He turns back to look.

“Sleep well,” Jet says.

And Peter Ransom smiles softly and disappears.

Jet sits down again at the table, and stares into his tea. He breathes. Slowly. His lungs fall in line as they should, and as he takes a sip of his tea his eyes fall shut. More than anything else, he feels tired. It is different now, than before. Not the bone-deep ache of weariness, the wasteland left after every flood of anger. Just gentle exhaustion. His thoughts still swirl, rapid, twisting patterns like the endless whirlwind of clouds surrounding Le Verrier, the city he wishes he could forget. He will not sleep, at least not soon. But he sips his tea and listens to the gentle hum of the Carte Blanche’s engine, and knows that every breath takes him farther from that city, farther from his past, and that, if he sleeps tonight, he will wake in a different world. And he makes the choice of who he is in that world.


End file.
